_McClellan and the Government.--Lewis and Scully Arrested as Spies.--An
Attempted Escape.--Trial and Conviction.--Condemned to Die.--Before the
Gallows their Mouths are Opened._
The month of February added its slowly passing days to those that had
preceded it, and as yet no tidings were received from Timothy Webster,
or from those who had gone in search of him. W. H. Scott had returned,
and reported that they had safely passed over the Potomac River, and
landed upon rebel soil, but further than this, I had no information that
tended to allay my anxieties, or to give assurance of their safety.
In the meantime, the troops around Washington had not been idle.
Reconnoissances had been made from time to time, by the advance-guard of
the army, and skirmishes with the enemy were of frequent occurrence.
These movements were of great importance, not so much from the actual
results of victories attained, as for the education which it imparted to
the troops, in accustoming them to the presence of their foes, and
giving them confidence while under fire.
General McClellan had completed his plans for the investment of the
rebel capital, and the public mind was in a state of feverish anxiety
and expectation for the forward movement of the troops. The popular cry
of "On to Richmond," was echoed from lip to lip throughout the entire
country. Every one, except those who knew and realized the danger and
difficulties to be encountered and overcome, were filled with an
enthusiasm which only regarded results and never considered the cost of
their accomplishment. Extravagant ideas of a struggle which should be
"short, sharp and decisive," were the only ones entertained by the great
army of "stay at homes," and the question of caution, foresight and
sagacity was left to the consideration of those who must brave the
dangers of the field, and face the deadly fire of their determined
enemies.
Added to this a feeling of dissatisfaction began to display itself in
high circles at Washington. The delay, which General McClellan wisely
deemed necessary for the perfect equipment and education of his army,
was being used as a pretext by those who envied the young commander, to
detract from his reputation, and to impair the confidence which a united
people had reposed in his loyalty and ability. The President was
besieged by importunate cavillers the burden of whose refrain was the
defamation of the hero of West Virginia, and it is not surprising,
however much to be regretted, that Mr. Lincoln gradually permitted
their clamors to disturb him, and eventually partook of some of the
distrust with which they endeavored to impress him. From a legitimate
and wise desire to prevent an untimely divulgence of his plans, General
McClellan had, up to this time, kept his ideas and opinions to himself
and confined his military discussions to but a few of his immediate
officers, and those whom he had known and trusted for years. This manner
of proceeding was not to the taste of some of the leading men in high
places at that time, who deemed themselves as competent to confer with
and advise the commanding general, as those whom he had chosen. In order
to soothe their wounded self-pride they had recourse to a species of
revenge not admirable, to say the least. They plied the ears of the
President with comments derogatory to McClellan, and with innumerable
suggestions of pet schemes of their own conception, which would, in
their opinion, undoubtedly end the war with surprising alacrity. The
result of these onslaughts was, that McClellan was required by Mr.
Lincoln to unfold his own carefully arranged plans to a council of
generals, for their consideration and approval. To this "wicked and
ignorant clamor" he was obliged to yield, and it is not to be wondered
at, that his proposed movements were betrayed, and that not long
afterwards he was subjected to the mortification of having his army
divided into corps, against his wishes, and their commanders appointed
without consulting him, and without his knowledge. Subsequently he was
compelled to submit to having the conduct of the war in Virginia placed
in charge of inexperienced, irresponsible and jealous-minded officers,
whose antipathy to him was as well known as it was unceasing and
violent.
Notwithstanding all this, the general pursued his way. His army was
organized, his plans prepared. The defense of Washington was provided
for, as he thought, in the most complete manner possible, and in command
of a noble army, which had grown up under his immediate guidance and
control, the brave commander started upon his campaign.
During the month of March, 1862, the forward movement was commenced. By
divisions the army was transported from Alexandria to their point of
destination upon the Peninsula, and on the first day of April, General
McClellan embarked, with his headquarters, on the steamer "Commodore,"
reaching Fort Monroe on the afternoon of the following day.
At this point we will leave the army, to follow the movements of my
operatives, and detail their experiences in the rebel capital, although
the facts were not reported to me until a long time after their actual
occurrence.
Price Lewis and John Scully reached the city of Richmond without
accident or delay, and at once established themselves in the Exchange
Hotel, where they remained quietly for the night. The next morning they
started out to search for Timothy Webster, and for the purpose of
obtaining reliable information of him they went to the office of the
_Richmond Enquirer_, for the proprietors of which Webster had frequently
carried letters, and purchased goods while in the North. Here they were
informed that Webster was confined to his bed at the Monumental Hotel.
Repairing at once to the place where they were directed, they were shown
to Webster's room, and here they found the brave fellow, lying a weak
and helpless invalid, attended by Mrs. Lawton, whose attentions to him
were unremitting. There was also in the room, a Mr. Pierce, a warm
Southern friend, whose friendship for Webster was of long standing, and
whose visits to the sick man were of daily occurrence.
The recognition between them was a most formal and undemonstrative one,
and no one would have suspected that they were engaged in the same
vocation, and acting under the same authority. During the short
interview that ensued, Webster was fretful and ill at ease. Knowing the
sentiments of the people as he did, and associated as intimately as he
was with the most prominent of the Confederate authorities, he was
fearful that the precipitate and unheralded appearance of his companions
might lead to their being suspected, as well as to attaching suspicion
to himself.
The few words of conversation, therefore, that ensued, were marked by a
constraint which was uncomfortable to all parties, and the visit was of
short duration. When they called again upon Webster, they found with him
a rebel officer from the Provost-Marshal's office, who was a friend of
Webster, and who visited him frequently.
Webster introduced his two friends to Captain McCubbin, for that was the
man's name, and after a few minutes, that officer inquired:
"Have you gentlemen reported at General Winder's office?"
"No, sir," replied Lewis, "we did not think it was necessary, having
fully reported to Major Beale, and received his permission to travel."
"It _is_ necessary for you to report to the Provost-Marshal here, and I
now give you _official_ notice of the fact," said McCubbin, laughingly.
"Very well," returned Lewis, "we will do so as early as possible."
"Any time within a day or two will answer," said the officer.
Webster watched the rebel captain carefully while he was speaking, and
he thought he detected beneath his careless, laughing demeanor, an
element of suspicion, which he did not like, and more than ever he
deplored the fact that my men had visited him so soon, or had appeared
to be acquaintances of his. However, the mistake had been made, if
mistake it was, and he resolved to give the matter as little concern as
possible, trusting that his anxiety was ill-founded, and that all would
be right in the end.
On the following morning my two operatives presented themselves at the
office of the Provost-Marshal, and meeting Captain McCubbin there, they
were soon introduced to General Winder, who occupied that position in
the rebel capital. After they had been formally introduced to General
Winder, that officer made very minute inquiries, as to the antecedents
and the business of the two men before him, although no word was
mentioned, that led either of them to believe that they were suspected
of being other than they seemed. They informed the Marshal that they
were natives of England and Ireland, that Scully had been in America
nearly three years, while Lewis had arrived only eighteen months before;
that one of them had been connected with a prominent dry-goods house in
New York city, and the other represented a London publishing firm, whose
office was located in the same city. They also stated that in Baltimore
they had become acquainted with W. H. Scott, who had informed them of
great opportunities for making money by smuggling goods into the
Confederacy, and that this visit had been made to afford them the
knowledge requisite to embarking in such an enterprize. They had agreed
to deliver the letter, which Mr. Scott gave them, to Mr. Webster, which
they had done, and further than this their intimacy with either
gentlemen did not extend.
This interview was conducted in a very pleasant manner by General
Winder, and after they had fully answered all the questions which had
been propounded to them, they took their leave, being politely invited
by the General to call upon him whenever convenient.
Congratulating themselves upon the fortunate outcome of a visit which
they had looked forward to with more or less solicitude, they repaired
to Webster's room to give him an account of what had transpired.
They had not been seated very long, when a detective from the Marshal's
office made his appearance, and after apologizing for his visit,
inquired from what parts of England and Ireland the two men had come;
stating also, that General Winder desired the information.
After this man had left, Webster turned to his companions and in as firm
a voice as he could command, said:
"Get away from Richmond immediately! There is danger brewing. You are
certainly suspected, and it may go very hard with all of us, unless you
leave the city at once!"
"Why do you think so?" inquired Scully, in a skeptical tone. "We
certainly cannot be suspected, and I am confident that you are alarming
yourself unnecessarily."
A spasm of pain prevented Webster from replying immediately; but when
the agony had somewhat subsided, he answered:
"I tell you that man never would have come here with that question
unless there was something wrong. You must, indeed, get away, or the
consequences will be serious."
Scarcely had he uttered these words, when there came a sharp rap at the
door, which, upon being opened, revealed the forms of two men, one of
them being George Cluckner, a detective officer attached to the
Provost-Marshal's office, and the other no less a personage than Chase
Morton, a son of ex-Governor Morton, of Florida, whose house in
Washington my operatives had at one time assisted in searching.
The consternation of Lewis and Scully may well be imagined, and the
latter, without uttering a word, walked rapidly towards the open doorway
and disappeared, leaving Lewis, filled with astonishment and
apprehension, to pass the ordeal of an introduction. The salutations
between them were, as may be conjectured, not of a very cordial
character; and after the merest form of politeness, Lewis bade Webster
good-evening, and left the room. At the top of the landing he found
Scully awaiting him, and they were about to descend the stairs,
felicitating themselves upon having escaped a threatened danger, when
the door of Webster's room was opened, and the Confederate detective
again stood before them.
"Are your names Lewis and Scully?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir," answered Lewis, promptly, resolved to put as bold a face
upon the matter as possible.
"Then," said the officer, "I have orders to convey you to General
Winder's office."
There was no help for it, and they signified their readiness to
accompany him at once, intending to make an effort to escape when they
reached the street. This hope, however, was dashed to the ground; for,
as they descended the stairs, they found three other officers awaiting
their appearance, who immediately took them in charge, and accompanied
them to the Provost-Marshal's office.
Several times, during their journey, Lewis noticed, with increasing
apprehension, that the gaze of young Chase Morton was riveted fixedly
upon them, and he had no doubt whatever that they had been recognized,
and would certainly be apprehended. This prospect was far from being a
cheerful one; but they mustered up all their latent courage, and
conversed good-humoredly with their escort, as they walked briskly
along.
Arriving at the General's headquarters, they learned that that
functionary was absent upon some urgent business, but would shortly
return, and had left orders that they should await his appearance. Lewis
and Scully were accordingly admitted to a private room, and requested to
make themselves comfortable until General Winder should desire their
presence. The door closed upon the retreating forms of their escort, and
left them in a most uncomfortable condition of mind indeed. There was
now no doubt of the correctness of Webster's suspicions, and they
bitterly regretted their haste in visiting him, and also not having
taken his advice at once. However, this was no time for regrets, and
they resolved to firmly adhere to their original statements, and await
the disposition of their case by General Winder.
While they were conversing together, the door was opened, and young
Morton entered the room, accompanied by an officer. Stepping directly up
to Price Lewis, he addressed him:
"Don't you remember me?"
"I do not," responded Lewis; "I do not remember to have seen you at any
time before to-day."
He looked unflinchingly into the eyes that met his, and the determined
tones of his voice betrayed no trace of the emotions that were raging
within his bosom.
"Don't you remember," continued young Morton, "coming to my mother's
house, in Washington, as an agent of the secret service of the Federal
government, and making a thorough search of our premises and its
contents?"
"You are mistaken, sir," replied Lewis, firmly. "I know nothing of what
you are alluding to."
"I am not mistaken," said the young Southerner, "and you are the man!"
"Perhaps this gentleman will say that he recollects me, next," said
Scully, resolved to be as bold as possible, under the circumstances.
Chase Morton gazed at him a few moments and then answered, decidedly:
"Yes sir, I recollect you also; you were one of the men who assisted in
searching my mother's residence."
Both men insisted strongly upon their ignorance of any such proceeding,
and indignantly repudiated the charges that had been made against them.
At this juncture General Winder came in, and walking up to Lewis he
greeted him cordially, warmly shaking him by the hand, saying:
"How do you do, Mr. Lewis, and how is Mr. Seward?"
"I do not know what you mean," replied Lewis.
"Perhaps not," said Winder, with a disagreeable smile, "but I am
inclined to think that you know a great deal more than you are willing
to admit."
"I do not understand you."
"Very well," said the Provost-Marshal, "you will understand me, and all
in good time. Do you know gentlemen, I suspected you were all wrong from
the start, and you were not keen enough to impose your story upon me?
George," he added, turning to one of his men, "go to the hotel, and get
the baggage belonging to these gentlemen. We will see if that will
throw any further light upon their true character."
The officer departed, and during his absence, General Winder plied them
with questions about their mission; their knowledge of Timothy Webster;
their visit to Richmond, and in fact about everything imaginable, and
all of them showing conclusively that he believed them to be spies, and
unworthy of credence. Their satchels were finally brought in, and a
rigid examination failed to discover anything to justify his suspicions,
and Winder finally left the room, angrily ordering them to remain where
they were, and directing his officers and Chase Morton to accompany him.
A few minutes elapsed after their departure, during which the loud voice
of Winder could be heard, angrily declaiming against the two men; he
then came back again, and addressing my operatives said:
"Gentlemen, your stories don't agree with what I know about you, and we
will give you time to think the matter over;" then turning to his deputy
he commanded, "Take them away!"
"Where to?" inquired the officer.
"To Henrico Jail," was Winder's response.
They were then conducted to the jail and placed in a room in which six
others were confined, where the officers left them to their meditations,
which, as may be imagined, were far from pleasant. Not knowing what
might be in store for them, and fearing that their presence in Richmond
might result in danger to Webster, they resolved to say nothing
whatever, and to adhere strictly to the story originally told by them,
and then to abide by the consequences, no matter how serious they might
be.
During the afternoon of the following day, an officer accompanied by an
elder son of Mr. Morton made their appearance at the jail, and he, too,
identified the two men, as being concerned in searching his mother's
residence in Washington, and endeavored to recall several incidents
which had taken place on that occasion. To all of his statements,
however, Price and Scully made emphatic denials, and vehemently asserted
their entire ignorance of anything connected with the Mortons, or their
relations to the Federal government.
Finding it impossible to obtain any admission from the two prisoners,
they took their departure, and left the confined detectives to their own
unpleasant reflections.
For three days they remained in their place of confinement, and during
that time no word came from the Marshals office or from any one
concerning their disposition or future movements. It seemed as though
the authorities had been content with simply placing them in durance
vile, and then had dismissed them from their minds. This was the most
favorable view they were able to take of the case, and they were
solacing themselves with the fallacious hope of having escaped a fate
which they dreaded, and also with the belief that Webster, their friend
and companion, would not be associated with their presence in Richmond,
and that their discovery would not operate to his injury.
On the fourth day, however, an attache of the Marshal's office came to
the jail, and calling for John Scully informed him that his presence was
required by General Winder. Scully prepared himself for the visit, and
taking leave of his companion followed the officer. He did not return
that night, and for days afterwards Lewis was in ignorance of what had
become of him, or what fate he was to expect at the hands of these
minions of disloyalty and secession.
Lewis, meanwhile, had become acquainted with his fellow prisoners, all
of whom were in a state of anxiety as to what measure of punishment
would be meted out to them, and all nearly crazed with the uncertainty
of their impending fate. For days they had been concocting a plan of
escape, and finding Lewis disposed to make an effort to be released from
his confinement, they developed their plans to him, and requested his
aid in the accomplishment of their purpose.
Lewis hailed with delight a proposition that promised to enable them to
exchange the damp and noisome air of a prison for the free breath of
nature, and the dark hours of captivity for the freedom and liberty he
longed for, and he became an energetic and careful coadjutor of those
who suffered with him the degrading position of being imprisoned by a
government which they despised, and by which their lives were menaced.
The part of the jail in which they were confined was separated from the
main building, and contained four cells, two upon the ground floor and
two immediately above them. These cells were reached through a corridor
from the yard outside, and secured by two doors; one a heavy iron one
fastened on the inside, and the other a stout wooden barricade, the lock
of which was placed on the outside of the building. It was the custom of
the old man, who acted as the jailer, to allow the prisoners a half
hour's walk in the yard during the early evening, and then, locking them
up safely again, he would leave them alone in the building, while he
went to his home, several blocks distant.
One of the men had managed to secrete a file about his person, and with
this they succeeded in making a saw out of a knife. These were the only
implements which they had to work with. Notwithstanding the meagerness
of their implements, but a few days had elapsed before the bolts on
every cell-door were sawed through so that they only required a few
minutes' labor to detach them from their fastenings altogether.
It is impossible to detail the hours of feverish anxiety, of tireless
energy, and of momentary fear of detection, through which these men
passed while engaged in their difficult and dangerous work--or to depict
their joy, when at last their labor was completed, and they awaited the
time of carrying their plans into execution.
The outside door was now the only barrier between them and their coveted
freedom, and various plans were suggested to overcome this obstacle. At
length one was decided upon which promised to secure the object of their
desires. In one corner of the yard in which they took their daily
exercise, there was a large pile of ashes and garbage, which had been
accumulating for a long time. It was resolved that one of their number
should be buried under this rubbish, while several of the other
prisoners engaged the old jailer in animated conversation.
The man selected for this purpose was a good, brave fellow, who was
formerly a sailor, and had lately been a member of an artillery company
from New York. His name was Charles Stanton, and he had come into the
South upon his own inclination, and for the Quixotic purpose of
obtaining command of a gunboat of the Confederacy, and then attempting
to run it through to the Union lines. He had, however, been suspected,
and remanded to prison, where he had remained without a trial, and
without hope of release, for several months.
The prisoners were all turned out for their usual exercise in the yard,
on the evening which had been agreed upon; and in accordance with their
arranged plan, several of the prisoners surrounded the old turnkey, and
engaged him in an earnest discussion, while others set actively to work
to dig the grave of Stanton in the ashes. In order that he might not be
unbearably uncomfortable, his body only was covered with the contents of
the ash-heap, while his head and shoulders were concealed from view by
some straw, which one of the men brought from his cell for that purpose.
In the jail, at this time, there were a number of negroes, who had been
captured while attempting to make their way to the North, and although
these faithful blacks were aware of the attempted escape, and knew full
well that they were not included in the movement, their efforts were
none the less active in behalf of the white men who were struggling for
liberty.
They had been informed of the attempted escape, from the first, and had
kept the matter a profound secret, at the same time rendering such
service as they were capable of to the whites.
Everything worked to their entire satisfaction. The turnkey was
unsuspicious; the grave was made without discovery, and Stanton was
carefully concealed. In a few minutes afterwards the call for retiring
was heard, and the men, with throbbing hearts, rushed in a mass toward
the door of the corridor. This was done in order to escape the counting
of their number, in case the old man should attempt to do so. They
passed quickly into their cells, and were not required to be counted.
Thus far, all had been done as successfully as could be hoped for, or
expected; no suspicions were excited, nor was their missing comrade
called for. It had been the custom of the old man to make a tour of the
cells after the prisoners had retired, to see if they were all there
before he went away for the night. In order to overcome this possibility
of detection, a figure had been made of straw, stuffed into the garments
of the men, and laid upon the bed, in order to look as much like a human
being as possible.
This precaution proved to be a good one, for just before the time of
closing up the prison arrived, the glimmer of the old turnkey's lantern
was seen in the corridor, and shortly after, his face appeared at the
door, as he eagerly scanned the occupants of the various cells.
Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, the jailer went his way, the
heavy outside doors were closed and locked, and the retreating footsteps
of the old man could be distinctly heard.
The critical moment had at last arrived, and they awaited in breathless
silence the appearance of Stanton. Fortune favored them in a peculiar
manner this evening. As the old man was passing the pile of ashes under
which Stanton was concealed, he noticed the unusual appearance of the
straw. Stopping for a moment, he drew a match from his pocket, lighted
it, and then walked toward the heap as though with the intention of
setting fire to it. The match fortunately was extinguished by a blast of
wind, and after searching in his pocket for another match, but finding
none, he slowly turned, and walked out of the gate, locking it securely
behind him.
Stanton's feelings, under this ordeal, may be imagined. If the old man
had succeeded in igniting the straw, under which he was concealed,
detection would have followed instantly, and no doubt serious injury
would have been inflicted upon the brave fellow, who had willingly
suffered the discomforts of his unpleasant confinement for the purpose
of assisting his comrades to escape.
No sooner had the gate closed upon the jailor, than he crawled nimbly
out from his place of concealment, and hastily made his way to the door.
He at once began his operations upon the lock. The appearance of Stanton
at the door was the signal for the others, and in less than an hour the
locks upon the cell doors had been removed. Stanton had wrested the lock
from the outside door, and only the iron inside one was now to be
overcome. This barrier resisted all their efforts, and it was at last
decided that the lock must be removed by main force. This was a
proceeding which necessitated a great deal of noise, and they were in an
agony of apprehension lest their clamor should attract the attention of
people passing on the outside, and thus lead to their detection. To
prevent this, the colored men, without any solicitation or instruction,
came to the rescue in a very important, though unexpected manner. They
commenced to sing in concert, at the top of their voices, snatches of
plantation and camp-meeting melodies, which effectually drowned the
sound of their blows, and enabled them to work without fear of
detection.
The lock at last yielded to their combined efforts, and the men issued
silently forth into the darkness of the night, breathing once more the
stimulating atmosphere of hope and promised liberty. Only the wall
around the prison yard was now to be surmounted, and with the aid of
some old planks that were lying around, they succeeded in reaching the
top, after which they noiselessly dropped themselves to the ground.
Although this wall was very high, they all reached _terra firma_ in
safety, and with one impulse breathed a prayer of thankfulness for the
success which had thus far attended their efforts.
Silently, and walking in couples, at long distances apart, they started
out to leave the city. The sky was clear, and the moon was shining
brightly overhead. The stars were twinkling merrily, as though enjoying
the success which had attended these brave, patient men, in their labor
and toil of days and weeks.
This was on the eighteenth day of March, and Martial law had been
proclaimed some time previously. It was now nearly eight o'clock, and by
the provisions of the law any one found upon the streets after nine
o'clock, must be in possession of a pass, or be liable to arrest. Great
haste was therefore necessary, in order to leave the city before that
hour. With only the stars for their guide, they set out in a northerly
direction. Not one of the men was acquainted with the country, and their
journey was all the more perilous on that account.
By midnight they had reached the Chickahominy, having succeeded, by the
greatest good fortune, in escaping any one who was disposed to make
inquiries or to molest them in any manner whatever. Across this swamp
their way led through quagmires and deep pools, and was dangerous in the
extreme. Sometimes waist deep in the soft mud and water, and scrambling
over slipping places which furnished insecure footholds, and threatened
instant danger from falling back into the pools through which they had
made their way. Their journey was full of hardship and suffering. The
air was cold and frosty, and their wet garments clung to them like ice;
their limbs trembled; their teeth chattered with the cold, and their
condition was really a pitiable one indeed.
At length they reached the woods upon the opposite side. Here they were
obliged to stop and rest, completely exhausted. Some of the hardier of
the party removed their dripping garments, and attempted to wring the
water from them; while others, unable to stand the chilling air any
longer, built a fire, around which they gathered in the effort to warm
their bodies and to dry their water-soaked clothing.
They rested for about two hours, and then pushed on again until
daylight, when they sought the shelter of the woods and laid down,
hoping to get some sleep after their laborious and fatiguing journey of
the preceding night. Sleep, however, was impossible; their clothing was
wet, and the air was cold. Their sufferings became intense, and at
length, finding it impossible to endure the freezing atmosphere longer,
they determined to build a fire, regardless of the consequences.
Proceeding further into the wood, they gathered some boughs, and soon
the cheerful blaze afforded them sufficient heat to dry their frozen
clothing and to warm their benumbed and freezing bodies. Thus passed the
day, and when darkness came on again they resumed their journey.
Already they began to experience the pangs of hunger. They had eaten
nothing since the evening before, and had walked many weary miles. They
were foot-sore and tired and hungry. They had provided themselves with
the remnants of the corn cake which had been served for their supper on
the previous evening, but these had become thoroughly soaked with water
on their journey through the swamps, and had crumbled to pieces.
Notwithstanding their pitiable condition, their strong wills and brave
hearts sustained them, and they plodded on.
The night was intensely dark; the stars were obscured, and a pall of
inky blackness hung over them, which rendered their journey exceedingly
hazardous, as they could not see the way before them, and were unable to
tell in which direction they were traveling.
They had not proceeded far when the storm broke, and a drenching torrent
of rain descended. The wind whistled and howled through the trees, and
for hours the tempest raged with relentless fury. Seeking the shelter of
the woods again, they crouched close to the trunks of the trees, and
vainly attempted to screen themselves from the deluge. It was of no
avail, however; the leafless timber afforded them no protection, and
during the continuance of the storm the poor, tired and almost exhausted
fugitives were exposed to the pitiless blast.
Shivering with cold, their teeth chattering, their garments drenched
through to their quivering skin, they knelt or crouched upon the ground,
and when daylight dawned, and the storm at last cleared away, they were
almost too weak to help themselves.
Price Lewis looked around him as the faint streaks of sunrise illumined
the horizon, and to his dismay saw that nearly all of his late
companions had disappeared, and that only three others beside himself
remained.
With the greatest difficulty they succeeded in building a fire, and were
just preparing to enjoy its comforting warmth, when they were alarmed by
the sound of the hasty tramping of feet, and in a moment they were
surrounded by a number of Confederate soldiers, who commanded them to
surrender at once.
This sudden and unexpected appearance was a crushing blow to their
hopes. They submitted without a word; and although bowed to the ground
with disappointment, they experienced a sensation almost amounting to
relief, at the prospect of receiving the care and attention which even
enemies would give to those in such distress as were these poor
fugitives.
Limping along, they were marched to an out-building, connected with a
farm-house near by, when, to their surprise, they saw the remainder of
their party, who had been captured by another band of soldiers, huddled
together in one corner of the room.
The soldiers were touched with pity, as they beheld the forlorn
condition of the men whom they had secured, and in a short time they had
provided them with a repast, which the famished fugitives devoured with
a rapidity which gave ample testimony of their long and painful
abstinence.
After dispatching this meal they were conveyed directly back to
Richmond, and returned to their old quarters in Henrico jail. On their
arrival each man was placed in a separate cell, and doubly ironed, to
prevent a repetition of their efforts to escape.
[Illustration: _The prisoners re-captured._]
While Price Lewis had been engaged in this unsuccessful attempt to gain
his liberty, John Scully had been undergoing a far different experience.
A court-martial had been hurriedly convened, where he was fully
identified by every member of the Morton family as the man who had
searched their premises in the city of Washington, and had, after a very
summary trial, been convicted and remanded back to prison to await his
sentence.
On the second day after the return of Price Lewis he was conducted
before a court-martial, and in a remarkably short space of time was
accorded a trial, if trial it could be called, and his conviction
followed as quickly as did that of John Scully.
They had been charged with being alien enemies, and at one time acting
in the service of the Federal government in Washington. In addition to
this, they were charged with loitering around the fortifications at
Richmond and taking plans of the same. Notwithstanding the fact that no
witness could be procured who would swear to having seen them in such
localities, or engaged in any such occupation, the members of the
court-martial, with singular unanimity, found them guilty of the second
charge, with as much haste, and as manifest an air of solemnity, as they
did of the first.
The next day they were each informed of their sentence, which was that
they should be hung by the neck, as spies, and that their execution
should take place in one week from the day of the communication of the
information to them.
This sentence was a heavy blow to the two prisoners; and from the
character of the men by whom they were surrounded, they felt that hope
was useless. The spirit of animosity manifested toward them by the
court, the indecent haste with which their trial had been conducted, and
the rapidity with which their sentence had followed their conviction,
gave them no reasons for hoping for clemency, or that they would be able
to escape the dreadful fate which now was impending over them.
The conduct of the various members of the Morton family in betraying my
operatives to the authorities, and in appearing as accusing witnesses
against them, in face of their promises, long ago made, to befriend them
if possible, was an act which did not reflect very favorably upon their
regard for truth, or their appreciation of delicate treatment when they
themselves were suspected of treachery.
Lewis and Scully had never seen each other from the time when the latter
was removed from the cell a few days after their first imprisonment, and
each was unconscious of the other's fate or of the state of their
feelings under the fatal sentence which hung over them both.
After their conviction they had both been sent to a prison called Castle
Godwin, and had been placed in irons, and in separate cells. During the
first two days that elapsed after their conviction, they were visited
by Judge Crump, who conducted the trial, and by several members of
General Winder's staff, all of whom endeavored to obtain some admissions
from the two prisoners which would justify their action in condemning
them to death. All with no avail, however; the two men stoutly insisted
upon their original story, except so far as to admit that they had
searched the premises of Mrs. Morton, but each man was firm in stating
that he had become disgusted with the service, and had left it very soon
after that act had been committed.
On the day after their sentence had been communicated to them, a letter
was brought to Lewis, from the commandant of the post, stating that
Scully was suffering with a serious illness, and having requested that
Lewis be allowed to visit him, the privilege had been granted. On
entering the cell where Scully was confined, Lewis found his
fellow-prisoner in a very depressed condition of mind, although his
physical infirmities had been assumed in order to secure an interview
with his partner in misfortune.
After discussing their situation as philosophically as possible under
the circumstances, seeking for some ray of hope and finding none, they
were at last compelled to the belief that their doom was sealed, and
that their only plan was to bear up manfully to the end.
Scully, who was a Roman Catholic, desired the services of a priestly
comforter, to whom he could make such statements as would relieve his
mind in the coming trial, and made known this wish to Lewis.
"You will not tell him what you know of Webster, and his connection with
this matter, will you?" said Lewis, fearful that Webster might be
betrayed.
"I don't know what I will tell him," answered Scully; "I have not
decided what to say, nor do I know what I will be commanded to relate."
"For God's sake, Scully, don't say anything about Webster; we can meet
our fate like men, but to mention his name now, would be wrong indeed."
"I tell you," said Scully, "I don't know what I am going to say. I don't
want to do wrong, but I cannot tell what I may have to do yet."
Lewis argued with his companion long and earnestly upon this matter, and
when at last the priest arrived, and Scully followed him to another
cell, the warning admonitions of his fellow-prisoner were ringing in his
ears.
What transpired during that secret meeting between the condemned spy and
his father-confessor, Lewis did not know, but when he was conducted to
his own cell, late that night, he saw a man and woman closely guarded,
in the lower hall, and his heart grew heavy and cold as his imagination
conjured up the direful fate which a confession from his imprisoned
comrade would bring to the faithful patriot Webster, who lay suffering
and anxious upon his bed of pain.
After a long and restless night, in which he tossed uneasily upon his
hard prison bed, vainly attempting to court the rest-giving slumber of
which he stood so much in need, Lewis arose from his couch, feverish and
unrefreshed, as the first faint rays of the morning sun penetrated his
damp and dingy cell.
His mind was in a state of confusion, and his heart was filled with
fear. What had been done he knew not, and yet those guarded figures of
the night before were ever in his mind. Could it be that they were
Webster and his faithful attendant Mrs. Lawton? He shrank involuntarily
from this thought; and yet, strive as he would, it recurred to him, with
increased force, and with more convincing power, after each attempt to
drive it from him.
In a little while, the prison was astir. The guards were making their
accustomed rounds, breakfast was served, and another day, with all its
solemn activity, and its bustle so death-like and subdued, had begun.
Unable to partake of the scanty meal that was set before him, Lewis
impatiently awaited the hour when he would be permitted to visit his
fellow-prisoner whom he had left upon the eve of consulting with his
spiritual adviser, and, if possible, learn the result of his interview
with the priest.
About ten o'clock the turnkey appeared, and he was conducted to Scully's
cell. As he entered the dimly-lighted room, he noticed that the face of
the man whom he had left the night before, had undergone a wonderful
change. His cheeks were sunken and pale; his eyes had a strange, wild
expression, and the shadows under the lids were dark and heavy. His hair
was unkempt, and his lips trembled with the emotions which he was
struggling to repress. Whatever events had transpired since he had seen
him last, it was evident that their effect upon Scully had been terrible
and agonizing. He had been unable to sleep, and the tortures of his mind
had been almost unbearable. His greeting to Lewis showed a degree of
restraint which had been unknown before, and for a moment he seemed
unable to speak.
At length he grew calmer, and related to his friend the events of the
preceding night, and the influences that had been brought to bear upon
him. The promise of freedom; his loving family at home; the certainty of
an ignoble death if he refused; the degradation of the impending
scaffold; and the promise that his admissions should result in injury to
no one, all combined against his weak condition of both mind and body,
and at last, yielding to the influences which he could not control, he
had told his story, and had given a truthful account of all his
movements.
Who can blame this man? Who, that has stood before the frowning
scaffold, and with a free world before him, can utter words of censure?
Only those who have suffered as he did, prostrated as he was, can know
the terrible agony through which he passed ere the fatal words were
forced from his trembling lips. For myself, I have no judgment to
utter. Now, as when the news was first communicated to me, I cannot
express an unjust sentence. John Scully and his companion were not
heroic martyrs. What then? They were simply men who, after having
performed many brave acts of loyalty and duty to their country, failed
in a moment of grand and great self-sacrifice. I cannot apologize for
them--I cannot judge them. Their trial was a severe one, and they were
in sore distress. If they succumbed to a controlling emergency, it was
because of a lack of the heroic elements of humanity; and who, in our
day, can claim their possession in the very face of death and dishonor?
Let us hasten over these unpleasant and disastrous events. Finding that
the worst had occurred, and that further concealment was of no avail,
Lewis, too, opened his mouth. He was again visited by the rebel
authorities, and at last he, too, added his voice to that of Scully, and
made a revelation of his true character, and of the nature of his
mission to Richmond. The next day they were respited. They had escaped
an ignominious death, but, perhaps, in their lonely cells they suffered
a death in life, beside which an actual demise might have seemed a
blessing. Leaving them to their reflections, we turn again to Timothy
Webster.